


Crash And Burn

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, Insomnia, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 01, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jess is dead, buried a month, and Sam's still running, refusing to stop, because it's all he can do. But sooner or later, even the hottest, wildest fires burn out of fumes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash And Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greeneyes_fan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=greeneyes_fan).



> _**A/N:**_ Written for [this prompt](http://mad-server.livejournal.com/44195.html?thread=491683#t491683) at **mad_server** 's [Again but with Colds: A Sneezy-SPN-Boys Comment Fic Meme](http://mad-server.livejournal.com/44195.html). **greeneyes_fan** 's prompt for this one was: _I've always been a fan of the "working (or hunting) while sick, then crashing" scenario. Back in early season 1, Sam (1) Went swimming in a lake in Wisconsin in November (2) Flew on an airplane (3) Slept about 3 hours per day this entire time. See which of those items you can combine into a sick, sneezy Sam._ Thanks to  **mad_server** for the beta and for letting me play.
> 
> Takes place sometime between _1x04 PHANTOM TRAVELER_ and _1x05 BLOODY MARY_.
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.

"Ohforfucksakejustgotosleep," Dean mumbles without heat from the bed not three feet away, kicking off the blankets and burying his face into the worn sheets, turning to the door, his left hand slipping under his pillow. He squirms, settles more solidly on his stomach, and his breath evens out again.

Sam glances back to the riveting, muted food-processor infomercial and shuts it off. There's no sense in both of them losing sleep and Dean's more than put up with him in the month since Jess… _died_ …

If Sam's honest with himself, the only reason he made it through those nightmarish first days — hell, is still barely hanging on — is because of Dean. After four years of running from his family, staking his claim in the world, being independent, he's right back where he started — anchoring himself to his big brother. Dean, alternatively quiet and steady, loud and bossy, always seems to understand what he needs and is willing to give him the time and space to heal, helping him search for new hunts. And damned if he isn't appreciative of his rock-steady sibling.

He figures it's the least he can do to let his hypervigilant, hyperaware brother have a solid night of sleep, even if it means staring at the dark ceiling, counting cracks, figuring out what the water-stains look like.

But Sam can tell that even Dean's endless patience is wearing thin and that Dean's going to address the issue of him not sleeping, hardly eating, barely coping, sooner or later. He hopes it'll be later…

**::: ::: :::**

The next thing he knows, there's a hand is on his chest, jolting him awake. Sam's eyes snap open, a scream dying in his throat as he bolts upright, his forehead nearly colliding with his brother's chin, Dean's reflexes barely saving them both from painful bruises.

"What time is it?" He scrubs his face, casting his gaze around the room. He must've fallen asleep. All their shit's packed and the bags are piled by the door and Dean's dressed and ready, his hair still damp, a paper cup of coffee in hand.

"Uh," Dean checks his Timex. "Nine-thirty. We need to check out in about an hour. I wouldn't have woken you otherwise."

"Damn," Sam curses, almost glad Dean didn't call him on the nightmare he most likely was screaming from. His throat feels raw, tight. "I'm sorry, man." He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, slowly rises. "I didn't mean..." He unzips his bag, pulls out yesterday's pair of jeans and a purplish T-shirt with some kind of dog emblazoned on it. His chest constricts suddenly. Jess'd have liked it even though she'd never seen it.

Dean shrugs, shakes his head. "Don't sweat it. God knows you need it." He sits on the other unmade bed, gulps from his cup, wrinkling his face in disgust at the taste. "I think you slept like five hours in one shot. What were you doing? Shooting for some kind of record? Time for us to call the _Guinness Book_?"

"More than that. Had to be at least seven or eight."

"You're a crappy liar. The TV was on for half the night again."

"Dean, I get it. You're concerned..." Sam takes a breath and it catches in his throat, makes it throb. _Don't go there. Please, please don't. I couldn't stand it if..._

"Fuckin' straight I'm concerned. It's my sleep you're messing with. Besides, it's your job to keep my ass alive and three-hours-a-night, one-salad-a-day isn't going to cut it."

Sam's instantly relieved, infinitely grateful for Dean's tact, his layers of defense, even though he hears the worry for little-brother underneath the words.

Dean blows out a breath. "Go take a shower. We need to hit the road. There's another hunt about six hours from here."

**::: ::: :::**

Dean's standing out by the car, leaning up against the open trunk, shuffling through a stack of printouts. "Here," he says, slapping some pages into Sam's hands as he jams the rest into a cream-colored folder and shoves it between the duffels. "Start researching, geek-boy. If you can't sleep, might as well make yourself useful by telling me how not to be killed by this thing. Or better yet, how to gank it." He slams the trunk shut.

Sam nods, huddling up in his sweatshirt, glancing down at the already-spotty paper. The December morning is cold and damp, a fine icy mist seeping through the seams of the heavy tan fabric, wrapping cold fingers around the back of his neck, chilling the exposed skin there, settling into his aching joints. God he's freakin' freezing, like he's taken another dive into that frigid lake in Wisconsin. Maybe he's having a delayed-delayed reaction to it.

A half-hour in, Sam's messing with the heater for the third time, cranking it up as far as it can go.

"Cut it out!" Dean swats at his hands, slapping fingers, and fiddles with the knobs. "I'm boiling here… There. Now don't fuck with it anymore."

Sam shrugs noncommittally, returning his gaze to the papers in his lap. His eyes burn and the print keeps blurring. He blinks hard. "Well, it definitely sounds like it's a spirit." His voice is wrecked, hoarse, and it hurts to talk, but the silence is worse.

Dean looks over at him, raising his eyebrow incredulously, _No friggin' shit, ya think, college boy?_ written all over his expression. "C'mon man, that's weak. I was thinking of it being more of a toss up between a poltergeist and an angry, restless spirit."

"A poltergeist is an angry, restless spirit."

"Just testing. Gotta keep you on your toes. Don't want you mistaking a Wendigo for a Bigfoot."

"Bigfoot doesn't exist, Dean…" Sam exhales slowly. He knows Dean's just trying to get a rise out of him. But he's really starting to feel like crap. His throat's all weird and feels like it's being shredded to ribbons by an X-Acto knife and there are two massive, tight golf balls lodged in there. _Swollen glands, awesome_ , he thinks.

Suddenly, he's sweltering, sweat pouring down his back. He claws at his sweatshirt until he manages to pull it off over his head.

"Dude?" Dean's head snaps towards him as Sam fumbles for the window crank. "What's with the strip show?"

"Hot," Sam manages, his voice gravelly. The icy, damp air is heavenly.

"Well, shut the damn window. It's raining. Original leather, remember? Besides, you were practically freezing five seconds ago and in another minute you'll be cold again."

"I just need air… please."

Dean's cheeks puff out as he lets out a slow, exasperated sigh. And Sam knows he's won this round.

Dean's words prove prophetic because barely five minutes later, the window's closed and Sam's huddled back in his sweatshirt, teeth chattering. Sam glances over at Dean, who flashes him a sharp, _told-you-so_ look but refrains from saying the actual words.

**::: ::: :::**

They're at a breakfast-all-day cafe in Podunkville, No State, barely three hours down the Interstate, when Dean calls everything off.

"Are you going to at least drink that?" Dean jabs his fork at Sam's coffee. Sam's tiny side-order plate of scrambled eggs is mostly untouched.

Sam hunches even more over the steaming mug, trying to derive as much warmth as he can from it. His joints are killing him, his head hurts, and his stomach roils unpleasantly at the sight and smell of Dean's maple-syrup-and-whipped-cream-doused Belgian Waffles. He raises the chipped ceramic mug and takes a tentative swallow. His throat explodes in pain.

When his vision clears of tears, he sees Dean's drinking from his own mug, eyes scrutinizing him. Dean sets down the mug, takes out his wallet and extracts a crumpled twenty and a pristine ten, sliding them under the corner of his plate as he replaces his wallet in his back pocket. "Let's go. First motel we see, we're crashing. You're sick."

"No, I'm not," Sam protests, his voice a rough, feeble whisper. "I can still do this. I'm fine. We gotta keep moving. Please. Just…" He trails off into a fit of coughing that feels like kitchen knives are stabbing his lungs.

"No." The one word is a brick wall, a blunt rejection. "You can barely talk, you can't swallow, you're shivering again. You're sick and we're stopping." Dean stands, waits for Sam.

"But the hunt—" Sam trails his brother outside slowly, stiffly.

"—Is in South Dakota," Dean cuts him off, opening the Impala driver side door. "I'll call Bobby from the road, see if he can find anyone to cover for us. It's a straightforward salt'n'burn, all the legwork's done. A ten-year-old could do it."

"Yeah, a ten-year-old with our lives..." Sam pauses, hacking into the crook of his elbow. He's still coughing, unable to catch his breath when he feels Dean throw the car into gear.

When he's finally stopped coughing, he slumps into the seat, listing against the cold glass of his window. It steams immediately, but the chill feels glorious against his sweating forehead.

**::: ::: :::**

He's physically hauled from the car and half-carried through a cheap motel doorway, his limbs refusing to obey any commands, tangling on themselves. Then he's dumped on a bed. It's all he can do to draw up his long legs so they aren't hanging off the edge of the mattress and curl up miserably. He feels like crap warmed over, completely enervated and shivering.

He hears the door shut and the soft thump of duffel bags on carpet. It's just him and Dean and for some reason the knowledge completely undoes him.

"Jess…" The word is a benediction, a sobbing plea, as the coverlet dampens slightly with miserable, self-pitying tears as he turns into it to sneeze.

Dean doesn't say anything as he wrestles the covers from underneath him, pulling off Sam's shoes and jeans, stripping him down to boxers and sweatshirt leaving him exposed and shivering.

"C'mon, Tiger." He manhandles Sam upright, bracing him with his body as he force-feeds three Tylenols and a too-large spoonful of viscous green liquid down his throat. Sam winces, chokes on the NyQuil, coughing until he gags, nearly retching, but everything stays down. Dean presses the bottle of orange Gatorade into his hand. The electrolyte drink stings and burns going down but it gets rid of that puked-a-bit taste in his mouth. "All right, bedtime," Dean grumbles good-naturedly, setting the plastic bottle on the tiny table between the beds and easing Sam back onto the pillows.

Sam curls up miserably, joints throbbing, muscles aching, trembling in the cool air even though he knows he must be burning up with fever. Then there's soft sheets and the gentle, warm weight of the comforter being tucked around him. He senses Dean leaving his side, hears the creak of the other mattress.

"Jess said I'd crash and burn without her," he rasps brokenly. The words are jagged glass in his throat.

"Shut up and sleep. You're not dying; it's just the flu." There's the thud of boots dropping from a height and the sound of raucous, too-loud canned laughter. Sam winces and he thinks he might've made a sound because the TV suddenly quiets, the volume fading until it barely constitutes as white noise. And there's Dean's deep rumble, safe, reassuring, "I gotcha. I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
